Old Habits
by Morgan72uk
Summary: Old habits die hard - as the Director and Gibbs are about to find out. Jibbs that is almost angsty and not quite a romance.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Old Habits

Author: Morgan72uk

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I definitely shouldn't be doing this... sorry.

A/N - so, I wrote this as a while ago and its been sitting there for a while, waiting for me to post it. I think the reason I am ambivalent about it is, it's not quite romance, not quite angsty and I am not sure what it says about the state of their relationship.

**Old Habits **

The Director of NCIS took a breath of the sharp night air, relishing the cold and the freedom. The party was noisy and she was in demand; but she was also tired and in need of some peace and quiet. She hadn't strayed far; she could still hear the clink of crockery and the subdued murmur of voices. But, the craving for a moment to herself, away from the madness, had been surprisingly strong and though it was uncharacteristically self-indulgent she had slipped out of the room with barely a backward glance.

Her quest for some privacy had taken her onto a small balcony over-looking the hotel's ornamental gardens. Yet even while she admired the effect of the lights twinkling across the grounds, the agent in her was assessing just how easy a mark she was for a sniper right now. Despite the risk analysis she leant forward and gripped the railing of the balcony – closing her eyes as the stillness seeped into her. It was that little bit of devilry which had got her into trouble from time to time during her career; or had helped ensure she could see beyond the rule book – which was the explanation she preferred.

She was very aware that this stolen moment couldn't last, wouldn't be allowed to last. Her own sense of responsibility would demand that she return, even if it required spending another half an hour politely fending off the advances of a very senior diplomat who was clearly enjoying himself away from the restrictive presence of his formidable wife.

She'd handled the situation; making it clear that she wasn't interested, though he had been irritatingly persistent and it wasn't as though she could make a scene. But it hadn't done much to make her relax either – dealing with men who should know better than to make passes at her wasn't conducive to having a good time. And then there was the rather obvious fact that he probably wouldn't have tried at all if she'd been here with someone. Her social life had been pitiful of late – something she was feeling just a little vulnerable about and this hadn't helped.

No one had warned her what this job would do to her personal life. Strange, that it would bother her to sacrifice it now, after years in the field and under cover. But along with the position and the influence had come a security detail, drivers and a house full of monitoring devices. All of which were difficult to explain to prospective lovers. There was really no escape from it – though at times she made a valiant effort.

It was those attempts that had resulted in the ever-tightening security – the more often she successfully slipped away from her detail, the harder they tried to prevent her from repeating the trick. Her escape in Paris had gone down particularly badly – it had been much harder to find her when she'd disappeared on foreign soil.

As a game she might find it amusing, but it wasn't a game and she felt as though she was being suffocated. As a result it was far easier to concentrate on doing her job; there was more than enough work to fill her days and her nights. Mostly she was satisfied, but every now and again the rest of the world caught up with her and she remembered that she had never intended to become so absorbed by her role as Director that there was no room for anyone else. But, that was exactly what had happened and standing here in the chill night air, she wasn't sure what to do about it.

Knowing just how closely she was watched these days, she wasn't remotely surprised at the sound of the doors opening behind her, though when she looked over her shoulder the identity of the agent who had come to find her was a surprise. "You need to come inside Director."

"Can't I even have a moment to myself Jethro?"

"You can have all the moments you like – just not out here." When she didn't move, he added, "I'm not kidding Jen." She conceded the point and took one last look at the gardens and the night sky before preparing to return to fray. But once she was safely inside, the touch of his hand to her wrist stilled her. He tilted his head in the opposite direction and she followed him through a discrete doorway.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Her curiosity was thoroughly peaked as he led her along what was clearly a service corridor. "I think DiNozzo was seriously considering coming to your rescue back there." She hadn't expected him to notice what was going on before she left the party and the fact that he had was slightly disturbing. She didn't want him to think that somehow she'd initiated the encounter – or that she welcomed it.

"I thought you'd have beaten the impulse to chivalry out of him by now."

"Still trying." He pushed open a set of doors and she realised that he'd led her to a small, richly furnished function room – complete with a grand piano, sparkling chandeliers and windows that led out onto another balcony.

"Been doing some snooping around?" He shrugged in response to her question, though she thought he seemed uncomfortable. His expression was guarded – lately he'd been looking that way a lot and, now she came to think about it, this was the longest she'd been alone with him for weeks. The rumour mill, which of course she never listened to, said that the end of his relationship with Hollis Mann had been quiet but painful. So – it wasn't a surprise that he was keeping his distance from everyone.

She let him off the hook – turning her attention back to the room. It wasn't being used; the piano was shrouded in dust covers, chairs and tables pushed into the corners. Although, when she looked a little closer she could see a couch with some blankets on it, empty champagne glasses on the floor. "I think we've found someone's secret love nest." When he didn't answer she turned back to him. "Jethro?" His expression was unreadable and though she tried to meet his eyes he looked away.

"I'm going to stand outside the door, give you a couple of minutes to yourself – Ziva and Tony are covering for you, they're telling people you're taking an important call." He pointed towards the windows. "Stay off this balcony."

"I'll behave," he turned to go, but some impulse made her call him back. "Do you want to tell me why you brought me here?"

It was the one question he didn't want to have to answer. And, even if he had been inclined to respond he wasn't clear about what to say. He didn't know how to admit to her that he had no idea what he was doing, never knew what he was doing when it came to her.

He'd watched her work her way around the cocktail party; saw the men who followed her with their eyes, watched the impression she created. He was no more immune to that impression than they were; the black dress she wore skimmed her curves and something in its design was just a little less conservative than anyone else would even think of wearing to an event like this. He could accuse her of a lot of things, and when he was mad with her he did, but the politics and bureaucracy hadn't entirely suppressed her personality. Which probably explained why she spent so much time fighting off men.

He'd known that she would deal with her admirer with diplomacy and tact – and, unlike DiNozzo, he had been quite sure that she didn't require a rescuer. But shortly afterwards she'd slipped discretely away from the party and there had been something in her expression, enough of a something to persuade him to follow her. When he'd found her on the balcony with her eyes were closed, her head lifted to the stars, breathing in the night it was all he could do not to reach out and touch her, run his fingertips across her back, follow the path with his lips.

But, of course, he wasn't going to tell her that.

"I thought you could use the break," she quirked an eyebrow, unconvinced, but he didn't know what else to say to her. The truth was he'd been thinking about her since his split with Hollis, thinking about her a little too much. And he'd never meant for it to go beyond that – still didn't.

"Thank you," the words seemed to catch her as much by surprise as they did him. Startled and suddenly aware that they were alone and standing just a little too close together, their eyes met and they both froze. The companionable, almost friendly moment disappeared in a fizzle of heat and chemistry; his eyes flicked to her lips; soft, wet, inviting. This was a very bad idea. Or a very good one.

Honestly, he couldn't tell which of them moved first, all he knew was that one minute he was looking at her, thinking about maybe kissing her and the next he was wrapped up in her. His hands in her hair, their mouths locked, bodies pressed together, urgency spiralling through them. She tasted sinfully good and the quiet voice at the back of his head warning him against this was easily silenced. The feel of her hands sliding under his jacket and up over his back was almost enough to make him forget where they were.

But she remembered.

Jen pulled back, gasping at the feeling of loss as she brought their kiss to an abrupt end. Her heart was hammering so loudly she was surprised he couldn't hear it and she wasn't completely sure that her legs would support her. She knew she should put more distance between them – that it was a mistake to be standing here in his arms; but right now pulling away wasn't an option.

"We can't do this," she looked up, trying to read his expression. When it came to Gibbs you had to know what to look for, sometimes she did – and on other occasions her 'Gibbs interpreting ability' deserted her entirely. Was that a flicker of disappointment in his eyes - or just wishful thinking? His hands had been resting lightly on her hips, but at her words they dropped away. She knew he was going to step back from her and that she should let him go so they could start pretending this moment had never happened. And maybe, on a different day that was exactly what she would have done.

"We can't do this – here," she touched her fingertips to his cheek and watched the slight smile that curved across his lips at her words. He leant forward and brushed his lips against hers once more; slowly, gently - testing her response. She gave in, just for a moment and the kiss was more emotional than perhaps either of them was prepared for. But this time he was the one who ended it.

"Can we talk about this later?"

"Just talk?" She queried, not believing for a single moment that was what was on the agenda. She didn't want to be his rebound, but things between them were inherently complicated already and she wasn't averse to seeking comfort with someone she trusted.

"Hell Jen, I don't know." She smiled at that, so genuinely Gibbs, "you think I planned this?"

"I think you're following your damn gut."

"It works for me." She could have reminded him that three divorces, their own history and the demise of his recent relationship with Hollis said otherwise – but what good would that do?

"I know." This was one of those grey areas, the ones no one talked about but everyone knew existed. There was no absolute rule that prevented the Director from becoming involved with one of her own agents – but it didn't take much to realise why such an involvement could be disastrous. So, why was she standing here considering this? "I'm going to be here for a couple more hours. Coffee, later?"

He nodded and before her eyes Agent Gibbs slid back into place; professional, distant – a little austere. "I'll give you that moment now."

She watched him leave and then turned, catching sight of her reflection in a large, ornate mirror. She almost didn't recognise herself; lips slightly swollen from his kisses, hair a mess from where he'd run his fingers through it. She took a step closer to the mirror to try to repair the damage - she looked flushed and radiant; it suited her.

He'd made her feel good, made her feel desired and she'd needed that tonight. But a stolen moment in an empty room was very different to a late night visit to her house. She didn't know what he was looking for and she knew herself well enough to recognise that in this situation their needs might be incompatible. So why hadn't she stopped this when she had the chance? What the hell had she got herself into?

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - thanks for the reviews. You'll be glad to know that with some help from the very wise Elflordsmistress I have figured out what the story is about - and that it needs 1 or 2 more parts. But for now, here's part 2.

**Old Habits - part 2**

"I'm telling you, there is definitely something going on with them!" DiNozzo's voice was perhaps a little too loud, even given the low hum of departing cars in the underground car park.

"You are imagining it Tony, tell him McGee." The response came in the long-suffering tone of someone who wasn't having this conversation for the first time.

"As if the probie would even know what we're talking about. He wouldn't recognise that type of sexual tension if he tripped over it. Look, there – did you see that?" The three agents were standing discretely by the main exit, ostensibly watching the departure of the last few guests, but in truth both Ziva and McGee were being distracted by their colleague's running commentary on the interaction between the Gibbs and the Director.

"He touched her back," McGee pointed out, "that's not exactly intimate. They were walking together, it's what you do."

"It's Gibbs, probie. Since when does he do anything other than deliver head slaps? They disappeared from the party together." Clearly Tony was reluctant to let go of his theory, but Ziva rolled her eyes, unprepared to let the truth be completely overtaken.

"No, the Director left – and Gibbs went after her. They were gone for 10 minutes at the most."

"A lot can happen in 10 minutes Ziva,"

"In your life maybe," she arched an eyebrow – deliberately provocative, "but some women expect a little more." She flicked a glance over to where Gibbs was leaning against the door of the Director's car – still talking to her. "Although…"

"Ha ha!" Tony did a bizarre cross between a victory dance and a leap, "you see – twenty bucks says I'm right."

"I am not following him," Ziva said firmly.

"Probie?"

"No – absolutely not. And we're not bugging the Director's car either."

"Would I suggest something like that?" They both looked at him – from their expressions it was clear they thought it very likely that he would.

"What are you doing?" They'd all missed the fact that the Director's car had finally left and Gibbs was heading towards them.

"Nothing boss!" Tony tried his best not to look guilty, but it wasn't easy when you'd come within a split second of being caught speculating about your boss' private life – and not for the first time.

"Nothing?" Ziva and McGee backed cautiously away, sensing a potential explosion, or at least a head slap.

"Well, nothing but watching the perimeter – here and here, slight dead patch on the ear wigs so we're monitoring it. Very important that the guests are protected." There was very little chance that Gibbs would be convinced by the explanation.

"That's good DiNozzo, so good in fact that I'm going to make it your responsibility to stay here until every last person has cleared the event – even the cleaning staff. Ziva, McGee – you're with him!" He didn't stop to watch their expressions, or the way his fellow agents rounded on Tony. But Leroy Jethro Gibbs did grin to himself, just a little, as he headed towards his car.

* * *

He hadn't planned this – and the drive to Jen's house wasn't long enough for him to talk himself out of whatever 'this' was. He walked up the path to her front door, trying to work out what to say to her, trying to find a satisfactory explanation for what had happened between them. He could say it was sudden, but actually it had been brewing for a while – ever since she'd reappeared in his life and told him there would be nothing but professional contact between them. Neither of them had kept to that rule - almost as soon as she'd spoken the words he'd set about undermining them and so had she, only perhaps not quite so deliberately.

But explosions and secrets had overtaken the chemistry between them and they'd both lost sight of it. In the last few weeks it had crept up on him again – and two years after she'd made it clear there could be nothing between them, something was definitely going on. This time Jen wasn't backing away, she wasn't drawing the line and neither was he. So – what had changed?

He wasn't sure he could ask her that, knew he didn't have an answer to offer in exchange.

She was leaning against the door, watching his progress, her expression as carefully blank as it would be if they were about to have a difficult conversation in her office. She'd had about 10 minutes head start and had apparently been home for long enough to remove her heels and pour a drink. He couldn't tell if she'd also had second thoughts.

"What did Hector have to say?" she asked, looking over his shoulder to the dark car occupied this evening by the agent charged with her security.

"Not much," Hector was a man of few words and Gibbs had done little more than exchange a brief greeting with him as he passed, "I'm pretty sure he's trained to be discrete." She raised an eyebrow and moved aside to let him enter. "So – you said something about coffee?"

"You don't want a drink?" as a matter of fact he did, but he knew he might still have to drive home, so he reached for the glass in her hand and took a quick swallow of bourbon before handing it back.

"Not now."

He shucked off his jacket and draped it over a chair, amused to find himself in a bright and warm kitchen instead of some steel monstrosity. He knew she could cook - all the time they'd spent undercover together had taught them a lot about each other. Now though, he couldn't be sure that the Director ever found the time to do anything more than make coffee and possibly toast. He spent a moment enjoying watching her as she moved around the space, grinding coffee beans, grabbing cream and sugar, her attention firmly on the task – rather than on him.

He should be keeping his distance, chalking this up to a feeling of nostalgia. A moment of shared weakness, not to be repeated.

And she really should have changed out of that dress – but, since she hadn't.

When he stepped up behind her she froze and he waited, wondering if she was going to stop this after all. But after a moment she carried on filling the coffee machine. He took that as tacit permission to continue, she could hardly fail to understand his intent, he was right in her body space. He wasn't in any hurry and he was enjoying a moment of being in control. He trailed his fingertip carefully over her almost bare shoulder blade and she sucked in a breath before saying,

"You like the dress?"

"I like parts of it." He traced the thin strap, leaning just a little closer as he pushed it off her shoulder altogether.

"Jethro," she said quietly – but she'd stopped moving again. He could see the pulse jumping in her neck, waiting, perhaps anticipating what he was going to do next.

"Jen," when he spoke his lips brushed the outside of her ear and she shivered. Her reaction gave his ego a kick – he enjoyed having this effect on someone who so needed to be in control. The only option seemed to be to see what else he could do to her, so he trailed his lips down her neck towards her shoulder, hearing her soft gasp.

"What are we doing?"

"If you have to ask," she turned to face him, the uncertainty apparent on her face, though she didn't move away. He knew what this was about as far as he was concerned – a night of comfort, a night when neither of them wanted to sleep alone. He hoped they were on the same page, because he doubted he was capable of anything more. But, of all the people in his life she was one of the few who might understand that about him.

Her body was telling her that tonight she should accept what he was so clearly offering – and worry about everything else in the morning. Already she felt more alive than she had in months and he'd scarcely touched her. The temptation to reciprocate, to see if they were as good together as she remembered tugged at her. But if she started down that path she wouldn't be able to retreat, she had to be certain that she was prepared to live with the consequences.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" She queried gently; playing for time, running one finger along the front of his chest in blatant retaliation for the way he'd touched her. The muscle tightening in his jaw was enough of a response for now – she had other weapons if she needed them.

"You can't always play by the rules Jen," Well, she knew that – his healthy disregard for authority was legendary and only occasionally did she take it personally. But that wasn't exactly the answer she was looking for. Which didn't stop her from being surprised when he added quietly, "I just don't want to be turned inside out."

Silently she cursed Hollis Mann, who had clearly pushed too hard; tried to get him to open up, to leave behind ghosts he'd carried for years. She understood what had prompted the attempt, and if she'd been in Mann's place she might have done the same thing. But she wasn't in her place. She was in no position to get him to leave his past behind; she didn't have the time or the energy for soul-searching. She cared about him, but she knew him too well to embark on a mission to fix him.

At least it helped her understand why they were standing here – old friends, old lovers looking for something safe and comfortable; intimacy without damage. Which didn't preclude the possibility that if they carried on with this, she'd be the one to get hurt. Well, there were all kinds of risks – and, after last time, maybe it was her turn.

Words were complicated, he'd already said more than she expected him to – which left only action. She reached up, stroking her hand over his face, watching his eyes darken. Already the prospect of sleeping alone tonight was unpalatable, she shifted against him, hips pressing against his.

"Let's go to bed."

* * *

She woke when he got out of bed, turning onto her side she watched him pull on his clothes. The illuminated face of the clock beside the bed told her it was early, that there was no real reason for him to go. She stretched, considering her options; she could easily let him leave as she would with any other one-night stand. But this wasn't someone she would never have to see again. And, despite their best intentions she wasn't sure this was going to be one night.

On the other hand, if he was regretting this, if for the next couple of days or weeks things between them were going to be awkward and embarrassed it might be better to let him go. At least she would get a head start on all the difficult moments she was going to be facing.

Surprisingly she didn't have any regrets – that could be because she was still half asleep. Or, it could be because they had been as good as she'd remembered – and her mood was being affected by good sex endorphins. But there was no point avoiding the issue; the person she'd become under his guidance understood the value of making your position very clear. She was going to articulate what she wanted and let him make his own decisions. If she knew one thing about Gibbs it was that he knew his own mind.

"You don't have to leave," she said quietly, making him pause and look over at her.

He wasn't surprised that she'd woken, good agents quickly became light sleepers – and she'd been a very good agent, one who'd spent more time in dangerous places than most of her colleagues.

She was unexpectedly beautiful in the grey light of pre-dawn, he knew this was a side of her few people got to see – softer, without the aura of command surrounding her. The prospect of staying was more tempting than he expected – which summed up everything about this night.

He'd expected her to be embarrassed, already making excuses and beginning the process of re-writing history to remove this event. But the woman watching him with her lips curved into a smile didn't look as though she was rehearsing excuses. As he looked at her she stretched and while he was admiring the way her body looked beneath the sheets she curled into the space he had vacated.

"Come back to bed and keep me warm Jethro, it's too early to get up."

"If you want something to keep you warm, get a cat."

"Cats need to be fed, you make do with coffee."

"Well, that's true," she buried her head in the pillow and gave every sign of going back to sleep – which was his cue to leave. Except that he didn't. If ever there was someone who knew how to keep her distance it was Jen. And he needed that in a lover at the moment.

She smiled when he slid back into the bed and nipped his shoulder playfully just to stop the moment from becoming too serious. His response was what she'd been hoping for; he rolled her over and pinned her arms above her head. She smirked at him, because this definitely wouldn't be happening if he'd left and because she didn't want to think about the fact that there was no way he'd be here the next time she woke up.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N - thanks for the reviews. I am very aware there is nothing else really happening here, just two people trying to work out the kind of realtionship they are capable of having. And, well - thanks for sticking with it. Though if you are hoping for more about cases and such I am afraid you will be disappointed.

**Old Habits – part 3**

Her prediction had been accurate. He'd dressed quietly and left about an hour later and, this time, she let him think she was asleep; knowing it was easier that way.

The next day had come and gone and they hadn't talked about it, of course. But then she wasn't sure they had anything to say. The important thing was, she wasn't sorry and neither, it seemed, was he.

On the surface nothing changed between them – he was certainly as oblique and as irritating as ever. Yet in the days that followed there were fleeting glances, moments when their eyes almost met and then skittered away. She knew the ground they stood on was shifting. It wasn't a shift of seismic proportions – no earthquakes to send them racing for cover. But, in a way she regretted that – there was very little to mistake in an earthquake after all.

It didn't exactly come as a surprise that they were still sleeping together.

The first time was just over a week later. She'd only been home for a half an hour when he had appeared at her door – a cup of coffee in his hand and a hollow look in his eyes.

She didn't need him to tell her that his latest case had got to him, that its conclusion had been bloody and difficult. She'd stayed out of his way, but kept watch from the shadows, making sure that he was still in control. She knew that he'd kept the demons at bay for only as long as it had taken to trap the killer – and now he was here – with her.

A different woman would have read all kinds of things into his appearance at her door once it was all over. But she knew him a little too well and she retained very few illusions about what he was capable of. In fact she suspected she saw more clearly than he did when it came to this – that he hadn't even started to think about what this meant and where it would take them.

The knowledge that he was looking for a place to hide should have been enough to make her send him away – home to his boat and his own bourbon. But instead she'd let him in, shared the meal Neomi had left for her and finally taken him to bed. Offering him the comfort she knew he was seeking, but would never ask for. Only wondering whether he would do the same for her afterwards, when they were lying tangled together in the darkness.

His hand was splayed over her hip, lips pressed to her shoulder; she could feel his breath, his heartbeat, his skin. In a sense it didn't matter what she would do, what he could give her because he was already too close.

* * *

She'd crept under his skin again, far more easily than he had expected. Their mutual lack of regret had been accompanied by an ease that had taken him by surprise; he'd been completely wrong footed by how everything about them seemed to just fit – slide smoothly into place as though nine years were less than a blink of an eye.

There was something different about them afterwards, though he wasn't surprised that no one else seemed to notice it. They were both very good at keeping secrets after all and he wasn't sure he could even begin to explain what the 'something' in question was; at least not straight away.

After that shattering case all he'd wanted to do was wash himself clean and crawl away into a corner to hide. But he hadn't wanted to be on his own. She seemed to understand how difficult the case was; he'd caught her watching the team once or twice and gathered that she'd asked both Abby and Ducky for updates. He'd been angry at first; annoyed that she seemed to be gauging whether or not she needed to intervene. But the more the case had clawed at him, the more he had realised that if she did assist it might enable them to reach a conclusion sooner. And he wanted to be free of it. Still he drew the line at asking her for help himself – sending Ziva in his stead, pretending not to know the identity of her 'source'.

The end was messy, bleak; the lives the killer had destroyed in his wake had touched all of his team – dampening even DiNozzo's exuberance. He sent them home as soon as he could – knowing if they had any sense they would grasp whatever comfort they could this night, do whatever it took to purge the terrors. And he was no different.

He half expected her to turn him away, to remind him that they weren't lovers, that they'd shared just a single night when a mixture of loneliness and nostalgia had caught up with them.

But it was more complicated than that, they were more complicated than that and he knew that when she looked at him she could see the need bleeding out him and he willed her to stanch the flow, though he couldn't bring himself to ask.

They didn't talk much; she gave him a glass of bourbon, led him into the kitchen and heated up some food. He ate under her watchful eye – not really noticing the meal, seeing only her; the way her hair curled into her shoulders, the hint of pale skin at her throat where she'd unbuttoned her shirt; an altogether different hunger.

When he finished the food she pushed the bottle out of his reach before he could refill his glass and sent him upstairs for a shower. He didn't argue, was glad to let the hot water wash over him, wanting to feel clean for what might be the first time in days. He wasn't altogether surprised when she slipped into the shower behind him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before kneading the tight muscles there with her fingers. He leant forward, enjoying her touch, the way she knew his body – how it responded to her ministrations. Finally, when he couldn't stand it any longer he turned, pushing her back into the tiles, letting the need and the hunger overtake him; seeking solace in her touch and her taste.

The love-making carried them from the bathroom to her bed and afterwards they rested, tangled together, his chest pressed to her back, breathing in the steamy scent of her body. He hadn't intended to stay, told himself he'd just shut his eyes for a while, since he was feeling drowsy. But for once his body made the decision for him and when he awoke it was to the low buzz of her alarm at 5.30am.

Neither of them was capable of conversation in the morning without coffee. But somewhere between making coffee, showering and retrieving a change of clothes from his car, the potential awkwardness disappeared. And along with it went the opportunity to have a conversation about what was really going on, what it meant.

He was already on his way back to the Yard before her car arrived to pick her up.

Somewhere deep inside he knew that one night stands shouldn't just slip into more without some discussion, but he wasn't ready to confront that thought. He was too distracted by feeling better to question what it meant that she could offer him comfort without leaving him weak or diminished and he he was carefully avoiding any thoughts that might raise the spectre of whether she'd let him do the same for her.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N - thanks for reading and reviewing. This is longer than I intended it to be - and I've been told it's a little sad. Thanks to Elflordsmistress for some fantastic suggestions.

**Part 4**

He was in interrogation when the wheels came off, though he didn't know at the time that was what was happening. At the time he was far more distracted by the fact that the buzz of his cell phone broke his flow and that someone had dared to break rule number 22.

"What!" he growled as he answered – flicking the cell phone open without checking caller id.

"Agent Gibbs," dimly he registered that her voice sounded different, but it wasn't enough to stop his annoyance at being interrupted.

"I'm in interrogation Director," he looked over at his suspect – scowling at the man until he flinched.

"This won't take long. I've been called out of town; I'll be gone for 2 days, so I need you to cover any urgent matters. You'll be able to contact me through the LA field office and Cynthia is re-working my schedule. I'm sure you can hold things together until I get back."

His mind wasn't really on what she was telling him. If it had been he would never have just accepted that she was going to be away; he would have been suspicious, or worried – since she really didn't do unscheduled trips across the country. But he wasn't thinking.

"I'll handle it," was his response, closing the phone before the conversation could be continued and setting about the task of breaking the suspect with considerable relish.

The suspect gave them an address, which led to a raid, which brought them back into interrogation and by the time he finally returned to his desk it was three hours later and Tony and Ziva were crowing over the signed confessions they had obtained, forcing him to snap "reports – now" at them, just to get a moments peace.

Cynthia was standing by his desk, looking nervous but determined and for a moment he couldn't think of a single reason to explain her presence. "Agent Gibbs, the Director left these for you," she waved some files at him, which he made no move to take from her, "there are reports for you to go over and a mission running that you'll need to oversee in MTAC." That was when he remembered the phone call from Jen, but was surprised that she wasn't still in the uilding.

"She's left already?"

"She went home an hour ago – her flight is at 5am tomorrow morning." It didn't exactly make sense that she'd have left – it wasn't all that late after all.

"And this meeting is in LA?" At his question Cynthia's eyes went wide.

"It's not a meeting, I'm sorry, I thought you knew."

"I was in interrogation – there wasn't exactly time to talk." Cynthia blinked and looked even more uneasy. Secretly he admired her loyalty to Jen, but he had no intention of letting her know that. "What's going on?" He demanded, his tone enough to persuade her to blurt out,

"It's a funeral – one of her friends was killed in an accident yesterday." He froze, thinking back to her voice on the phone – wishing he'd asked more questions, listened to his gut.

"What happened?"

"I don't know Agent Gibbs, she got a call about lunchtime and told me to cancel almost everything in her diary and get her on a flight. I think Dr Mallard spoke to her, she was very upset." He nodded and got to his feet, pointedly ignoring the files she was holding out to him. As he headed towards the elevator he had an uneasy suspicion that things were going to get very difficult.

"Ducky!" He strode into autopsy and wasn't surprised at the expression of reproach on his old friend's face. "I was in interrogation and then out trying to solve a murder, I didn't know and she didn't say anything!"

"Hardly surprising." Ducky sighed, "Debra Corrigan, I think we met her once. I remember her visiting just before we went to Europe."

Gibbs searched his memory and found what Ducky was talking about. At the time he'd thought the friendship between the laid back, Californian party girl and the ambitious, driven and very east coast Jenny Shepard an odd one. But he'd had dinner with them one evening during her visit and seen the way she'd brought out a lighter side in his partner.

He couldn't remember anything about the restaurant, or the meal they'd shared but he knew he'd scarcely able to drag his eyes away from Jen, mesmerised by her smile, by the way she'd moved. That evening had forced him to acknowledge that he was a little too interested in her for his own good; something he'd been trying to ignore for weeks. He could remember with incredible clarity the moment he'd looked up and found Debra watching him with an amused expression. He suspected she'd known his interest in her friend was not entirely professional, but she hadn't said a word – just gave him a small, knowing smile.

"She had two sons, seven and four." Ducky said – his voice quiet, shaking his head with regret and sorrow.

"Did Jen say what happened?"

"Car accident – the other driver was drunk, hit her head on. Both children were in the car, they weren't injured." Gibbs didn't even want to hazard a guess how Jen must be feeling, he wanted to ask Ducky how she'd seemed – but couldn't bring himself to admit to being as concerned as he was. He realised that was a futile effort when Ducky said, "what's going on Jethro?"

"Nothing," Ducky shook his head in quiet disbelief.

"That's what the Director said when I asked her,"

"Well, she'd know."

Jen didn't call, though he knew she was at home, that her flight didn't leave until early morning. He told himself that she could have called if she'd wanted him around – completely ignoring the fact that he could have gone to her if he was so concerned.

And he was concerned – Abby had given him a curiously vivid picture of an encounter with Jen after she'd heard the news about Debra. According to Abby the Director had been visibly upset, but holding herself together. She'd warded off a hug – clearly unwilling to accept comfort, or admit that she might need it.

He wasn't surprised – but that didn't mean he thought she was right. But the question remained – was he prepared to do something about it? The answer plagued him. He took it home with him, let it rattle around in his head while he worked on the boat, all of the time telling himself that she could have come to him if she'd needed or wanted him.

By the time he'd finished his first glass of bourbon he was honest enough to admit to himself that he wasn't going to her and, in all likelihood she wasn't coming to him. And maybe it was better that way.

There was nothing wrong with having an occasional lover who knew him well enough to give him what he needed. But it bothered him that the knowledge might just be one-sided, though there was nothing he could do about that now. Except make sure everything was as it should be when she got back – he was even prepared to do the paperwork.

* * *

She was exhausted; her body language was defensive and she wasn't exactly looking her best. She was grateful that first class was quiet and she didn't have to make conversation with a stranger. All she wanted to do was curl up in her seat and hold everything together, just for a little while longer.

The recriminations rattled around in her head; the thoughts she'd been keeping at bay while she was around other people forcing themselves on her now. She'd been a lousy friend – though she'd stayed in touch with Deb, she hadn't seen her in over a year, hadn't seen her husband and sons since just before she became Director. She used to tell herself that it didn't matter – that the two of them could be in a room together for just a few minutes and it would be as though they'd never been apart. But now she wished it hadn't been like that, now she wished they'd called each other every week and shared secrets, gossiped, talked about nothing – because there weren't going to be any other opportunities to prove how well they knew each other.

And she felt guilty – for still being alive, because what could she say to a devastated family when she'd taken chances with her life for years? When all the risks and danger should mean she'd been the one who died, while Deb had lived to see her boys grow up?

She'd felt the weight of that guilt as she'd stood at the graveside – an agent by her side, watching her back. As though she was worthy of protection, while Deb had been…

She knew the black dress she'd worn to the funeral swamped her, made her look pale and unwell. She wished she'd thought to wear something else – something bright that would have scandalised some people, but would have made anyone who had known Deb smile. She should have had the nerve to wear some bold colour to the funeral – Deb would have loved that.

She shuffled the files in front of her – scarcely paying attention to them. She didn't want to think about work – was relieved that things had been handled during her absence; she'd scarcely needed to check into the field office. Though, actually an emergency would have taken her away from a family suffocated by its grief.

She hadn't spoken to Gibbs; which didn't matter because, according to both Cynthia and Ducky, he was covering much of her work with surprising diligence. The knowledge that she wouldn't have to come back to an accumulation of crises should have been enough. And it was. But he hadn't called her himself.

She told herself there was no reason why he should. Sleeping together on two difficult nights meant nothing other than that, sometimes, old lovers could offer a comfort and familiarity that couldn't be found anywhere else. But she didn't think that was what she needed right now. She needed oblivion, sleep, a respite from the regrets that plagued her. Seeing Deb's family had been a stark reminder of what she had given up. And, at this moment she wasn't sure what she had given up those things for.

She shook her head, warding off the dark thoughts and the onset of tears, reminding herself that she couldn't cry, not in front of her fellow passengers and the stewards. She felt small; bending under the weight of responsibility and what it had done to her life. Other people seemed large, full of life; while she was fragile and insubstantial - as though she could just be blown away and leave little more than dust behind her.

The last time she'd been feeling this unsettled Gibbs had appeared, almost as though her mood had drawn him to her. She rested her head back against the seat, letting the low purr of the engines lull her towards sleep, knowing it was too much to ask for that to happen again.

She slept a little, but jolted awake with Deb's name on her lips and images of burning wreckage before her eyes. She was still blinking, trying to get her heart-rate to slow down when the pilot announced that they'd be landing shortly.

She still wasn't entirely free of the dream when she grabbed her case and crossed the arrivals lounge, fully expecting to see either Hector or Melvin waiting with the car, completely failing to see the person who was waiting for her, until he stepped into her path.

"Hello Jen."

* * *

As soon as he saw her Gibbs knew he'd made the right decision. Her eyes were covered by large sunglasses that really weren't necessary for the overcast DC evening. But, even with her eyes hidden, he could tell she was close to being overwhelmed by her loss; that she hadn't dealt with it at all.

For the two days she'd been away he had regretted letting her spend that first night alone, for letting himself forget that they'd been partners before they'd become lovers and that partners looked out for each other – especially when they had no one else.

But, even with that knowledge it had only been a couple of hours ago that he'd realised that he could make sure she was all right now. Offer whatever comfort she'd accept tonight, even if that turned out just to be a drive home where she didn't have to worry about maintaining a façade of strength. Of course she might feel as though she couldn't afford to let him see her grief, which wasn't a particularly comfortable thought.

"Jethro? What's wrong?"

"Nothing – I told Hector I'd meet you myself. Car's outside." He watched her as they walked, trying to work out if she was pleased or annoyed; wishing she'd lose the glasses. A moment later he got his wish and bit back the instinctive comment that she looked exhausted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her look so fragile, but then he'd never seen her just after the funeral of one of her closest friends.

"Thank you for taking care of things while I was away," he nodded, uncomfortable with her gratitude because after all, he had done the easy thing and avoided what he should have done.

She fell asleep almost as soon as he started the car, which was little short of a miracle given the way that he drove. But he knew if she'd been awake she'd likely never have let him make the decision to head to his place instead of taking her home.

"Have I moved?" A quiet voice asked from the passenger seat just as he turned into his drive, "I don't remember living here." She didn't sound angry and he looked over at her – wondering if an explanation was even necessary. "I hope there's bourbon," was her only comment.

"There usually is."

He was aware of her presence, of her silence as he moved around the basement, working on the boat. She didn't seem to be in a mood to talk and every now and then he flicked his eyes towards the chair where she'd settled to find her watching him, or gazing into her glass. He wasn't at all surprised that she wasn't making it easy for him, though he told himself it had to mean something that she was still here, that she hadn't demanded to be taken to her home. He'd almost decided to ask her about the funeral when a cell phone rang – hers.

He listened to her side of the conversation with growing concern, wanting to intervene the moment he realised that the call was from Debra's husband. Jen's voice was quiet – but he could feel the pain and loss as she tried to say the right things. He could have told her from personal experience that there was nothing she could say that would make the slightest difference right now. But he hesitated, until the sound of a muffled sob drew him across the room to her side.

He pulled her into an embrace as she struggled to continue the conversation, despite her tears. She was fighting a losing battle against the emotions she'd held at bay this long and all he could do was rub her back and hold her just a little closer as the tears started to flow in earnest. Gently he wrested the phone from her grasp and explained with all the compassion he could, that Jen was really in no condition to continue this conversation right now.

"I miss her," she said at last – turning her head into his shoulder, brushing the tears away. "I don't know what to do."

"You need to get some rest," he pointed out, drawing her from the chair and leading her upstairs into the bedroom. She didn't argue as he sat her on his bed and dug around for a t-shirt for her to wear. He was surprised how easily she was letting him take charge as she shrugged out of her clothes, pulled the t-shirt on and crawled under the covers, curling herself into a tight ball like a little girl who just awoken for a bad dream.

He wasn't sure about leaving her, though it was clear she really needed to sleep. As he took a step towards the door she whispered, "stay with me," and he could only guess what it had taken for her to ask that of him.

Carefully he undressed and slipped into bed beside her; stoking her hair as he held her, hoping it might send her to sleep. She was so quiet and still that he started to think it had worked, until she said, "we were going to book into a spa, spend a couple of days being pampered while we caught up – my treat. I've got the date in my diary, I was going to call her at the weekend, make plans."

He didn't respond, there were no words that he could offer that would help soothe the pain. All he could do was let her lie in the circle of his arms and talk, tell him about Debra, say whatever she needed to, until finally the tiredness got the better of her and she fell asleep.

"It's OK," he whispered, hearing her breathing even out and easing her carefully onto her side so he could curl up behind her. "I've got you."

* * *

She woke sometime before dawn, jet lag and an unfamiliar bed conspiring to draw her from a sleep that had been more restful than she had any right to expect. A heavy arm lay across her stomach – effectively holding her in place. Jethro – he'd literally been a shoulder to cry on last night; knowing what she needed when she scarcely knew herself.

He'd stayed with her, curled up beside her and just let her talk. She couldn't remember half of what she'd told him, but she knew sharing memories of Deb had helped, letting her believe for a while that her friend was still alive, still just an email or a phone call away.

Lying here in his arms she wished she'd talked to Deb about what was happening between the two of them; she could have used a second opinion on something she barely understood herself.

But Deb wasn't here and there was no getting away from the fact that she had spent the night with him. She knew that just sleeping together involved a very different type of intimacy. She couldn't afford for either of them to forget that this was about the sex.

Turning in his arms she pressed soft kisses to his chest, her fingers trailing lightly along his sides. He sighed, shifting onto his back and she took advantage of the better access this gave her, leaning over him to kiss his lips. When his eyes fluttered open, she whispered, "good morning," before sitting back, pulling the t-shirt over her head and casting it aside.

His eyes travelled over her naked body and now that she had his full attention she leant over him again. He blinked, winding one hand into her hair, looking up at her as she moved teasingly above him. It was pretty clear that his body was responding to her, she could see desire in his eyes, feel evidence of it pressing against her. But she could tell he was holding back.

"We don't have to do this," he said, running his hand over along her thigh.

"I need to," she didn't want to have to explain, was grateful when he didn't say anything more. He nodded to her once and then reached up to kiss her before rolling her under him and taking control. She sighed, letting his touch wash over her, blocking out everything but him. Even if it was only for this moment.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

A/N - thanks for the reviews. I hope people understand that I am not being critical of any particular type of sexual relationship - just using some uncomfortableness as part of the story. Also, as well as stealing the clotheshorse comment from a West Wing episode - I am also stealing it from the story Elflordsmistress as I just wrote called Photograhic Memories. The two fics aren't connected - I just had the line in my head and wanted to use it again!

**Part 5**

He watched Jen in the days after Deb's funeral. His observation discrete, careful but ultimately reassuring. She was quiet, a little more withdrawn than normal – but there was nothing in her behaviour to concern him. However she felt about losing a friend it was something that she was dealing with in private.

He thought she knew that he was watching her – though she didn't mention it. But then at times he got the sense that she was watching him, so discretely he never quite caught her, even when he sensed her looking down on them from the catwalk. In those moments he deliberately didn't look up; unwilling to either meet her gaze or send her back into the shadows.

But he'd been the one to change the mood – so easily that at the time he didn't understand what he'd done.

He could still remember the way she'd looked two nights before – in a pale blue gown that shimmered amidst the dark suits of the other agency Directors and assorted dignitaries.

ZNN had named the designer and the fashion correspondent had waxed lyrical about her style – obviously it was a slow news day. He'd paid very little attention to the nonsense, far too interested in watching Jen. Her expression was polite but all business as she'd interacted with several male colleagues – their interest as transparent as her rebuffs.

"Shepard," he'd hesitated when she answered her cell phone – thinking about the way she looked on camera in the dress, trying to decide if that was a good enough reason for calling her.

"You better hope no one else watching knows how to lip-read, unless 'get your hand off my ass' is how you're negotiating with other agencies these days?"

"Jethro – your eyesight is worse than I thought – my exact words were, 'get your hand off my ass before I knock you to the ground and impale you with my heels.'"

"Must have been a bad camera angle. ZNN like your dress by the way – though they're making sure not to call you a _clotheshorse_. I heard somewhere the last reporter who did that lost her credentials."

"That's not true, she still has her credentials – it's just that these days she's using them to cover labor disputes – and the only clothing she is getting close to is industrial." He knew better than to ask what she'd done to make that happen - it was definitely need to know.

"You finished?"

"On my way home now – did you call me just to tell me what ZNN are saying about what I'm wearing?"

"No."

The silence between them had stretched, loaded with tension until she said, "so – it's one of those phone calls?" Her voice had dropped a notch, but he could hear her amusement and something else, something he wasn't prepared to put a name to, but that he thought might also be in his voice.

"Maybe,"

"Where are you?" He'd got out of his car as the car she was travelling in rounded the corner and pulled into the drive of her house. "Never mind." He'd smirked a little as he snapped his phone shut and stepped forward to open the car door for her, chasing away her detail with a single look. "Something I can do for you Agent Gibbs?" she'd asked, accepting his hand and sliding elegantly out of the car.

"Thought you might need a drink after being surrounded by your peers for the evening." She'd regarded him levelly for a moment, before turning and heading towards the house. He'd followed – eyes glued to the low back of the dress, no longer surprised that one of the other guests had been keen to touch a certain part of her anatomy, wondering how he was supposed to resist the temptation himself. Although in truth, he wasn't interested in resisting temptation – and neither it turned out was she.

They hadn't got as far as the drink. He'd reached for her as soon as the door was safely shut – and she'd come fluidly into his arms, her hunger matching his in its intensity. He could still remember the cool feel of the silk against his heated skin – the way she'd moved against him, still wearing the dress – until he'd pulled it off her.

It really wasn't a memory he should be reliving during work hours. As the elevator doors opened he forced his mind to return to the task at hand. Which made it unfortunate that as he stepped into Abby's lab she announced loudly, "this has all the makings of a booty call gone badly wrong!"

"Abby?"

"Gibbs!" Her eyes went wide as she realised that she'd been overheard. "I wasn't talking about you, I mean you wouldn't… or maybe you would, I don't know." He kept looking at her, struggling to follow her train of thought. "It's none of my business – and I wasn't talking about you now, here – with me."

"Good," he set the Caff Pow down in front of her. "Are the tests results back yet?" She shook her head vigorously,

"Going to be a while yet oh great one. My babies are working flat out – but they have got a lot on." She gestured to the evidence on the table before her, which he could tell had nothing to do with his current case. "Very nasty murder, civilian contractor found yesterday morning – killed by a frenzied knife attack." She took a huge sip of the Caff Pow, "turns out that he and a 'friend' had an arrangement."

"An arrangement?" he asked, not liking the direction this conversation was taking.

"You know – sex without strings, whenever they needed it? Well, judging by their phone records and trace from the victims' apartment, they needed it a lot. Rivers' and his team think they may have had a falling out – one of them wanting more. Sex makes things very messy Gibbs, literally!"

It wasn't what he needed to hear and the case his team was in the midst of wasn't sufficiently absorbing to stop him thinking about it. He was glad they weren't dealing with that case. He really didn't want to have to unravel the details of something that might come a little too close to what he and Jen were doing. Abby was right – sex was messy.

He could try to elevate it, pretend there was something more going on – but just two nights before he'd turned up at her door; they hadn't shared a meal, or attempted to discuss how they'd spent their day, he'd been there for sex.

The thought worried him all day – eating away at his preferred vision of himself. He knew he was capable of having a one-night stand, had proven it on and off over the years, but always with someone he never expected to have to see again. Beyond that lay the difficult terrain of his failed marriages and all that he had lost when he had lost Shannon.

Abby had described it as a 'booty call', there were he knew other descriptions for what he and Jen had stumbled into – all of them unsavoury. Sex was messy and he wasn't a man who coped well with mess. He wasn't comfortable with blurred lines and moral ambiguity. There was a reason he taught using rules and discipline after all.

Later – long after he'd sent the team home, he made his way up to her office – words and rules rattling around in his head. She was still there, of course; glasses on, papers spread out in front of her. He paused in the doorway to look at her and when she raised an eyebrow to silently enquire what he wanted he said, "what are we doing Jen?"

* * *

"What are we doing Jen?"

Well, she'd been expecting that question, sooner or later. She was marginally grateful he hadn't asked it when they were in bed together, when there was nothing between them but flesh and heat. Which didn't mean she watched to discuss her personal life in her office. But he'd chosen this location for a reason, or maybe he just couldn't wait to ask her the question.

She took her glasses off as he stepped further into the room and shut the door. She risked a look up at his face and then wished she hadn't. His eyes were hard, like diamonds, and she wondered if he really needed an answer to his question.

Since she had been expecting this, she really should have been prepared. But the last few weeks had been far from easy and the two nights she'd spent with him had helped, although they'd also made her forget that she had known from the beginning that this would end with her being hurt.

But what could she do where there was a huge difference between the type of relationship he was capable of and the type of relationship he thought he should have? His three divorces were evidence that his instinct was to try to recreate what he'd had with Shannon, even though every time he'd failed – because that part of him had died with her.

If he couldn't see that for himself, then she didn't have the time or energy to spell it out for him. And if he wasn't comfortable with what they could have, then there was nothing she could do to change his mind. So, go down fighting or make a graceful exit? Somehow it didn't seem like much of a choice.

"You know what we're doing," she replied, trying to keep her voice level, "we both needed the comfort."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" His voice was laced with scorn and she almost flinched, but then refused to let him goad her into anger.

"I don't know what you call it Jethro – you were the one who said you didn't want to be turned inside out."

"That hasn't changed."

"So, you want something that is guaranteed not to cause you pain – but you don't want something that is just about sex? Well I'm sorry, but life doesn't work out that way!" She shook her head, "I'm not interested in being added to your list of failed relationships – again. And I'm not going to apologise for knowing myself well enough to realise that I'd make a mess of a relationship – and not just with you."

She knew what that said about her; that it was a failure of hope or faith, a sign that she had sacrificed too much, for too long, to get to where she had. Maybe he did need someone who believed he was capable of more, worth more. But that wasn't her; hell – she needed someone like that herself.

"I can't use you for sex Jen." She didn't think anyone had ever said anything to her that hurt more. But she nodded, casting her eyes across the papers on her desk; anything rather than look up and risk him seeing just how difficult it had been to hear him describe what had passed between them in those terms.

"Then don't." He nodded once.

"We all right?"

"As much as we ever are." He was silent, watching her for a moment longer, as though as he was trying to decide whether to say something else – but clearly he changed his mind. As he turned to go she found herself whispering, "and it wasn't just sex."

But the only answer was the sound of her office door closing behind him.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - well, this is it. All done. Thanks for the reviews. I am still not sure what I was trying to write - something messed up, but not completely angsty. Something that was realistic about who they were and what they could do in terms of a relationship... Thanks to Elflordsmistress for her advice and encouragement.

**Part 6**

It was a cold morning and he winced just a little as the sharp air stole his breath. He ignored the hollow feeling in his stomach and the low throbbing pain in his head that told him he'd probably drunk too much bourbon the night before. He needed coffee, some painkillers and to stop feeling this way.

It should have been easy to deal with the end of something that wasn't exactly a relationship. He'd had the practice, he'd got over Jen once before after all. But of course it wasn't that simple – those whispered words that he tried to pretend he hadn't heard were only a confirmation of what he already knew; it hadn't just been sex.

The bull-pen and the locker room were almost deserted, which was just as well. The coffee had helped; the shower and change of clothes made him feel almost human again. In a blur of images from the previous night he remembered a quiet drink in an out of the way bar, a woman who didn't have red hair and her bed.

He'd left before dawn, crept away like a criminal while she slept, feeling empty and lonely. He hadn't wanted to have a conversation with her, especially since he wasn't sure that he remembered her name.

It hadn't been intentional – he hadn't gone out looking for a direct comparison. But now he had confirmation of something he'd known all along. The one thing he hadn't done with Jen was have meaningless sex. It had meant something – though the meaning was complicated; his brain was still trying to make sense of it. And then there was what Jen had said about her own capacity for relationships; the line she seemed to have drawn between them right from the start. He wasn't sure he wanted to have figured out what that meant.

He knew that over the last week his mood had been more, difficult than usual. That as a consequence his team was keeping a low profile and probably speculating like crazy about what was wrong whenever they thought he was out of earshot.

"Here," he was deep in thought when someone set a cup of coffee down in front of him and he looked up startled at the realisation that the subject of those thoughts had got so close without him being aware of it.

She looked tired and for a moment he wondered if she was here early for the same reason he was – hating himself for imagining her slipping out of someone else's bed. "Early meeting?"

"Late mission – I've been in MTAC all night." Well, that explained why she looked tired and was in need of coffee.

"Thanks," he said, gesturing to the cup – not prepared to ask how she'd known he was here.

"Are you all right Jethro?" There was something about the way she asked the question, the softness in her eyes as they travelled over his face that made him want to look away.

"Fine," he replied gruffly, "a lot to do." She nodded once, taking his not so subtle hint and continued her path towards her office.

But she stopped halfway up the stairs and looked over at him; he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye but forced himself not to react. He imagined she knew exactly how he had spent the night, could see the evidence of another woman's touch all over him.

Part of him hoped it caused her pain – but it was a fleeting thought. He didn't want to hurt her and, if he did know what he wanted from her he'd have followed her up to the office and made her listen. But he didn't know.

* * *

"Gibbs!" He shot Abby a reproachful look as he stepped into her lab. His headache had returned, lingering around his temples and her volume was just a little too much, although at least she wasn't playing what she referred to as music. She took the caff pow out of his hand and looked him over. "You need a hug."

It wasn't a question and only when she had wrapped herself around him did he acknowledge that perhaps she had been right. "I don't like it when you mope," she said – resting her head on his shoulder. "You haven't head slapped anyone all week – even Tony's getting worried."

He didn't tell her that he'd head-slapped himself earlier that morning when he'd looked in the mirror and seen his bloodshot eyes and tried not to think about drunken sex with some faceless stranger. "The Director's moping as well," Abby whispered, "you need to make it better Gibbs."

"Has she said something?"

She uncurled herself from his shoulders and shot him her, 'remember which one of us is the genius' look. "Of course not. But I know you met her at the airport when she came back from the funeral – it's good that you looked after her, that she let you."

He thought he understood what that meant; Jen had let him in because she trusted him, he trusted her in the same way. But, turning to each other when they were hurt wasn't a relationship and the woman herself didn't seem to think they could have a relationship. Which left him confused, again.

"How did that case turn out?" He asked, desperate to change the subject, "Rivers' one?"

"Interesting choice for an attempt at changing the subject oh great one," Abby smiled widely, letting him know that she'd seen right through him, "it turned out not to be about sex at all. The victim was involved in a smuggling ring and his partners decided they wanted a bigger cut – and tried to set up the woman he'd been having sex with. Apparently they thought we'd be distracted by the sex without strings."

"Still not exactly a fairytale ending Abs."

Abby tilted her head to look at him, something like sympathy radiating from her eyes. "You know Gibbs, I love you – but sometimes you can be really old-fashioned."

"Abs," he didn't want to have this conversation – and especially not with Abby.

"How we respond to another person is governed by all kinds of variables – physical, biological, psychological, sociological – we never have the exact same response twice. And putting all those variables in a box and attempting to give it a name is just crazy."

He wasn't sure he followed – but that was often the way when it came to Abby's explanations. But, without McGee or one of the others to interpret he had to try. Fortunately she decided to make things easier for him. "Gibbs," she put her hands on his face, making him look into her eyes. "There are as many different types of relationship as there are people having them. They're all complicated in their own way. If it works for you, if it makes you happy – then it doesn't matter that you can't give it a label."

The penny had dropped – sort of and he nodded once, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you."

But despite his sudden burst of understanding it was two days before he was ready to share his sudden understanding with the other person concerned. Not because he needed the time to work things out – Abby's message seemed to be that he should stop trying to explain things, stop treating this element of his life as though it was an investigation. He made himself wait because he didn't want to turn up at Jen's door straight from another woman's bed.

* * *

Almost any other man might have brought her flowers. But Leroy Jethro Gibbs wasn't any other man and when he appeared at her front door it was with a bottle of bourbon. She considered accepting the bourbon and leaving him on the doorstep – but when she looked into his eyes she knew that was out of the question.

She sighed, moving aside to let him enter – knowing that her plans for a quiet few hours were about to be irrevocably derailed. But perhaps that wasn't so terrible a thing; she'd been avoiding spending time alone lately, not wanting too much time to think.

Deb was still on her mind – and weaving in and out of all those regrets about the friendship she hadn't given enough time to, was Jethro. They'd barely been together, yet she felt his absence. She hadn't realised how badly she'd needed someone in her life who knew her well, who could side-step her defences with ease, who wasn't intimidated by her.

But even while she acknowledged that she'd missed him, she reminded herself that he'd already shown that he was uncomfortable with what they'd started. If he didn't understand that trusting someone enough to offer and accept comfort was a huge leap of faith between two people with as much baggage as they had, then there was nothing she could say to convince him.

She took a step towards her study – but he reached out to snag her wrist, stopping her progress. He shook his head and turned in the direction of the kitchen instead – "we started this in your kitchen," he pointed out.

"We started this in an empty hotel ballroom," she replied – not sure that was really true either, because surely they had started this years before. But the bourbon he had brought would lace coffee – so she shrugged and changed direction. "What do you want Jethro?"

"To talk, about this." She sighed, for a man who didn't like to talk much he was certainly labouring this particular issue.

"Haven't we already had this conversation?"

"Wasn't much of a conversation."

"There wasn't much to say."

She looked over at him and found he was watching her – his gaze following her movements as she made the coffee. She was irritated by how closely this scene resembled that first night – knowing that was likely what he'd intended. She knew what would come next and didn't move away as he closed the distance between them, settling his body against hers. She clenched her fists to stop herself from touching him, "I thought we were stopping this?"

"I know we aren't using each other," he said quietly – a single finger tracing the length of her spine, "I know it means something."

He reached for one of her hands and she closed her eyes tightly as he smoothed out her clenched fist. She wasn't sure she had any defence against his gentleness – except the truth.

"I haven't changed my mind," she whispered, feeling the stiffness of her stance start to slip away as his warmth seeped into her.

"That's all right - I've changed mine." It was hard not to react to his words when she'd never expected to hear him to say them. She turned around to look at him – recognising the beginnings of a smirk at the surprise she didn't attempt to hide.

"How did that happen?"

"Well, I could try to explain – but I'm not sure it would help." She shook her head, trying to make sense of the change, surprised by how much she wanted to believe him. "Jen," her name was little more than a whisper; he was so close that she felt the word against her lips. "This works for us." And as if to prove his point he kissed her, softly at first – she thought they were both holding back. But the emotion slipped through anyway.

When they parted she stopped herself from asking what he had done with the real Gibbs and decided not to push him further for an explanation she wasn't sure she needed. Her fingertips traced over his features – seeing the tiredness and the strain she'd been trying to ignore for days.

She wished that she could give him more, because he deserved it – but it was out of the question. It wasn't who either of them was. She might have felt guilty that she'd been the one who'd forced him to accept that about himself – except for the way his eyes changed as she closed the distance between them; in the moment when he must have realised what she was about to do.

She wrapped her arms around him, giving and taking the comfort that this was all about; smiling into his chest as his hands curved over her hips, pulling her closer.

"Let's go upstairs," she murmured.

* * *

As he pulled on his clothes he let his eyes travel over the figure stretched out in the bed, a sheet covering her lower back. Though she was lying on her stomach her head was turned to the side and he wasn't at all surprised that he was watching him dress.

He'd have told her to go back to sleep – but he was perfectly aware that she needed to be up herself in half an hour. Which was the only thing stopping him from returning to bed.

Instead he knelt over her and pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades, rubbing his stubble gently against the smooth skin. She squirmed against his touch and tried to reach for him. But when his hand closed over her wrist she stopped moving and as his lips found a certain spot beneath her ear she shivered.

It was probably appropriate that there wasn't going to be any sharing of showers and early morning coffee today. But, there wasn't going to be any creeping guiltily away either. This was how their lives were, both of them getting on with what was likely to be a busy day. And alongside that there was the knowledge that neither of them had to sleep alone – unless they wanted to. He had no doubt that between the two of them, there would be nights when it was easier to sleep alone.

"Jen,"

"Hmm…" He hesitated, fingers tracing over her skin, not sure about voicing this thought. They were complicated people, with more than enough baggage of their own and far too much history. As a consequence nothing that passed between them could be simple.

"If you ever change your mind…" There was enough early morning light for him to see the smile that curved over her lips. She pushed herself up and slid into his arms, kissing him softly, tenderly – her hand still cupping his face as they finally parted, both a little breathless.

"You'll be the first to know."

The End


End file.
